Fear of Predation
by Leonca
Summary: Dr. Crane questions the limits of scientific knowledge when he encounters a creature from Algonquin mythology in Arkham Asylum.


Fear of Predation

I discovered the monster during a routine session with a patient. Dr. McCann was one of the quiet ones. I do not get many quiet ones.

After taking his medicine he froze rigid in his seat and fixed his gaze at some point over my shoulder. A bead of sweat rolled into his eye. He uttered some unintelligible mumble.

I leaned forward, notebook at the ready. "Say that again, doctor. I did not quite catch that."

Sometimes I regret the necessity of the mask. The rustle of straw and crinkle of burlap can be hard on the hearing in delicate situations such as this.

"_Oh shit._ Shit! Get a lighter! _No stop_!"

The patient fell silent and cringed away from the imaginary threat. When the spasm of terror passed he entered a state similar to the learned helplessness I have observed in laboratory animals. He closed his eyes and let his head droop to his chest. Tactile stimulation elicited a flinch, but he made no further efforts to escape his fate.

This was a very exciting find. I tested this version of the drug enough times to know it was not a typical reaction. It had to come from the patient himself.

Most people have uncreative fears. They cry about creepy crawlies, rant about rats, scream about spiders. No insect or rodent has ever done them harm. The images the drug creates are mere phantoms conjured by soft, unchallenged minds. The ones who give up are the ones who stared death in the face and never quite believed they made it through alive.

I injected the patient with enough reversal to take the edge off the drug's effects. He was quick to lift his head and scan his surroundings. When he noticed me standing over him he shrank back with a startled yelp.

I addressed him in gentle tones. "There, there, doctor. It cannot harm you now. Tell me, what did you see?"

He closed his eyes and shuddered. "He came back wrong. He came back _wrong_."

"Who are you referring to, and what was different?"

He fixed me with hazy eyes. Their expression grew clearer by the minute, but enough of the drug would remain in his system that he should fear the consequences of lying to me. "A patient. He was like… one of _you people_. He just moved to Gotham! How is that possible?"

Gotham's criminals are not the only lot to dress up and craft new identifies, but they do attract a special brand of attention. I have long considered publishing a paper on the phenomenon under a pseudonym, but recent events lead me to believe it would be short-lived glory. The Batman has dedicated himself to spoiling the fun of every one of _those people_ living in "his" city, no matter how petty it makes him look.

As a doctor working for Wayne Biotech, I knew the patient would offer a unique perspective on the potential for a new "costumed rogue." I readied my pencil. "Tell me what happened."

He tugged at his bindings and stared at the catheter in his arm. "He was one of Mr. Wayne's new hires. Some recent immigrant from France. They had him working in Alberta, researching new, environmentally safe alternatives to pipelines for getting oil out of protected wilderness areas. I don't know what happened. He killed his whole team. Killed half the law enforcement that tracked him down, too. With his bare hands… with his _teeth_. They shouldn't have taken him alive."

Animalistic behavior in rogues is nothing new. One of my previous patients survived a mauling by Killer Crock, and I can be sure he saw that face in his hallucinations. Unlike the doctor, his reaction to the drug was normal.

I offered the doctor a curt, between-professionals smile. He whimpered. Sometimes I forget how different ordinary expressions look beneath the mask. "My, my, how interesting. What was his diagnosis?"

"You don't understand. There _is_ no diagnosis. He came back _wrong_. No longer human. Cursed. Please let me go now! I won't tell anyone about this I swear!"

His words further fueled my curiosity. I had not taken him for a superstitious man. Superstitious fears can be very rewarding to study, or they can be dull disappointments. It all depends on how creative and deeply held the belief is.

I dragged a chair before him and sat to put him at ease. The pencil flashed between my fingers. "Tisk, tisk, my good doctor. Are you trying to back out before your session is over? You will never make any progress that way. Now, we must examine what the medication has revealed about your psyche. Your deepest fear is one of your patients. What a strange, sad position to find oneself in. Tell me, how did you reach the conclusion that your patient is cursed?"

He dared to let the briefest hint of irritation flash across his face. "When he got loose during a session and decided to bite my assistant's hand off so he could eat it. Mr. Wayne's business attracts a lot of strange people. Sometimes I wonder if he's behind some kind of conspiracy. Poisoning the water. Maybe researching the occult."

Conspiracy theorists can be very enlightening patients. True, most of them tout borrowed ideas they do not understand, but the ones who concoct original stories allow for such a personal peek into their minds. This particular idea caught me so off guard I almost damaged my professional aura with a chuckle. I scribbled a few notes and shook my head. "Now, now, doctor. We are not here to talk about your boss. We are here to discuss your patient. Tell me more about your experiences with him."

He turned his head and let his eyes roam the room. They rested on the door. I cupped my hand under his jaw and snapped his focus back to where I wanted. He shivered and held my eyes. "M-Mr. Wayne made a donation to Arkham and arranged for me to work with the staff to figure out what happened to his people. That _thing_ never gives us any answers. All it ever does is growl and try to bite us. It calls itself Wendigo. As in, wendigo psychosis. They're all so excited about researching some supposedly extinct mental disorder that they refuse to see it for what it is. You can't fix the _mind_ when the disease is a corruption of the _soul_."

I leaned closer. "How do you feel when you begin a session with your patient?"

New sweat slicked his face and he squirmed. "I-I feel like running. Running away. Crawling into a hole and hiding. No one understands, or, or they refuse to talk about it. I even told my wife I wanted to quit my job and she said, told me, to suck it up. To not be… afraid."

I let go and he sagged in his seat, shaking. I gave him a few minutes to recover.

His last statement supported my theory. Though I scoffed at the notion of curses, I believed he had experienced something special. Modern life is full of so many abstract anxieties that I enjoy searching for ways to remind people of a simpler, more primitive existence. I added a reminder to my personal notes to take an inventory of the creatures held within the Gotham Zoo, and then created a file for my newest patient.

I returned to my seat and folded my hands. "Goodness, goodness, it is fortunate that you decided to, uh, seek out my services."

"_Please don't kill me_…"

"Ah ah, _no_ interrupting! So unprofessional. Now then, what to do about this fear of yours? You are, in all likelihood, just as confused by my title as the uneducated masses of our quirky quarters. I am the _Master_ of Fear. As such, I am just as experienced in the treating of phobias as I am in researching their origins. Therefore, we shall conclude our session with a round of in-field treatment, and then you will be free to return home to your lovely missus."

I released the bindings and helped him to his feet.

His voice quivered with a pitiful attempt at defiance. "I won't help you."

"Now then, do be reasonable. It is for your own good. I cannot bear to let you continue on like this. You may come with me and confront your fear in the flesh, or you may stay here and take your medicine until you change your mind. My newest batch of fear toxin has a lovely potency. I could set you up in a comfortable room with a plentiful supply of food and water, and you would lie curled on the floor reliving your fears until dehydration put you out of your misery. Care to reconsider your decision?"

* * *

Ah, Arkham Asylum, compost heap for the rotting minds of Gotham City. Sinkhole for the good money and good intentions of naive multi-zillionaire Bruce Wayne. Mütter Museum of mental misfortunates.

I lost count of how many times I have escaped from my "home away from home". On occasion I walk right out again upon return because the staff never managed to find my last exit. Some nights I lie awake for hours entertaining myself with visions of the inmate and termite-ravaged structure imploding under its own weight and crushing us all.

Our afterhours stroll brought us past my lodgings. I noticed for the first time that the name tag on the door read **JONAT AN C ANE**. There was a layer of grime over the bare spots left by the missing letters.

The door we arrived at announced the inmate's name, in pristine lettering, to be **JACQUES BROUSSARD**. It was in the deepest part of the asylum, where the most violent inmates are isolated. A dank smell permeated the air and claw marks slithered across the walls.

My patient picked at the duct tape on his mouth, so I slapped him on the wrist. I handed him the stolen keys and instructed him to invite us in.

Before we could flick the lights the inmate announced his presence with a rumbling growl. It sent a chill down my spine and dredged up a long forgotten memory. For a moment I was back at home, a child of indeterminate age, playing with a dog on the lawn at Granny's friend's house. I think I used to like dogs. This one must not have liked me, and it let me know with a sound that I did not understand. I looked to Granny where she sat with her friend on the porch, seeking reassurance. Her face was blank. The dog bit me.

My patient tried to use the momentary darkness to sneak out the door. I caught his arm and shoved him back in. The growl deepened and was joined by a scratching sound. I found the light.

The inmate's living conditions would have shocked most civilized people, unless they knew he was one of Gotham's special children. Outsiders tend to look the other way, as if we live in some alternate dimension where rules of common logic and decency need not apply.

He was held down on a sturdy table with metal shackles securing him at the ankles, wrists, and neck. A mask obscured his face from the eyes down, save for a hole covered by a grille over the mouth. He was shorter than me, but his build was similar. If anything he looked thinner, gaunt even, as if the staff was too frightened to spend more than the bare minimum of time trying to feed him. His nails were thick and pointed, like yellow dog's claws. When the light hit him his pupils shrank to pinpricks which seemed as unnaturally small as the irises surrounding them were pale. The growling tapered off. He regarded us for a few moments with a series of strange snuffling breaths which somehow surpassed the eeriness of his previous vocalization. Then he roared.

The thrill of terror the sound ignited within my chest was one of the most wonderful feelings I have experienced in my career. It surpassed my heart-pounding missed lunch date with Gotham Zoo's prized black jaguar. It was almost as exciting as the first time the Batman brought me down, before I knew he was too cowardly to take the life of an enemy. Though I am loath to entertain explanations of a supernatural nature, in that moment I would have believed anything.

The outburst ended and he fixed narrowed eyes on Dr. McCann, as if awaiting an answer. The only reply came from somewhere a few rooms down the hall.

"Oh for the love of- _**Shaddup**_!"

The inmate responded with a bizarre noise that sounded something like _aaouwuuf_. It was very loud, but so low it almost passed beyond the range of human auditory perception. A noise meant to rattle the bones, not the ears. We heard no further commentary.

That display took the remaining color from Dr. McCann's face. He clawed at the burlap covering one of my wrists. "There. You've seen. You believe. Let me go!"

I pulled my arm free and patted him on the shoulder. "Come come, doctor. We have not even gotten past introductions! If you will not comply with your therapy…"

I held my fist level with his eyes so that he could see the gas dispensing nozzle hidden in the sleeve.

He turned to the inmate and mumbled, "Mr. Broussard, this is Dr., uh, Scare… Crane?"

"Scarecrow, thank you very much. Dr. Crane is not here right now."

The inmate met my eyes for the first time. "I am Wendigo. You smell weird."

He tossed his head as much as the shackle would allow and snorted.

I placed a hand against Dr. McCann's back. "Thank you for that sample of your ability to offer intelligent critique. Now, just as you are Dr. McCann's patient, so he has become mine. Are you ready to face your fears, doctor? Remember, you can only die once. Fear toxin comes with unlimited free samples. Unshackle the feet first, then the face and neck, and then the arms."

I gave him a push and leaned against the door to watch.

The keychain dropped from his sweat slicked palms twice before he managed to get in into the first lock. After that his hands steadied, but he still tackled the rest at a glacier's pace.

The inmate watched in silence and perfect stillness until the doctor was ready to undo the final shackle. While he gathered his courage the man, or monster, as I had come to see him, tensed. Those pinprick pupils swelled, bringing more jaguar flashbacks.

The last shackle released and he swung his hand at the doctor. It was like watching a man imitate a snake strike with his arm. In one instant he was on his back on the table, and in the next he was crouched on its edge over the doctor's twitching body. Blood oozed from deep gashes on the doctor's neck, but I suspect its unnatural angle is the real reason his twitching soon stopped.

The monster stood until he was just a bit taller than me, hunched and keeping his weight on the balls of his feet. The image of a snake preparing to strike came again.

My muscles locked me into stillness. I stared into his eyes until I became aware of doing so, and then I held my position, trying not to blink. The reaction must have saved my life, for which I am grateful. Though I can think of few more fascinating ways to die, there is still so much work left to do.

The monster's nostrils quivered and the intensity of his gaze wavered. He stepped back to the far edge of the table. I pinned him there with my eyes, challenging him, daring him to move.

I came to find something fearsome to share with Gotham, and found instead a creature ruled by its own fears. Through some combination of costume and confidence I cowed him, just as I have countless ordinary human beings.

I smiled at him. "Welcome to Gotham City. What do you think of it?"

He tilted his head and frowned. "It is confusing. So many new smells. What does Stinky-Grass-Man want?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "I have come to rescue you from this putrid place. The least you can do is offer the courtesy of remembering my name. Do you suffer from short term memory loss?"

He tilted his head in the other direction. "What is _that_?"

Either the "curse" came with severe brain damage, or Bruce Wayne's hiring standards are lower than I ever imagined. I sighed. "Never mind. I am Scarecrow, Master of Fear and Lord of Despair."

He curled his lips and ground his teeth, some of which could more appropriately be called fangs. "Pah! Who gave that name? I not remember that!" He stared off into space for a few moments, and then added, "You really help me?"

I nodded. "Indeed. I alone in this city would like to extend a hand of friendship. You need think no further than the cruel treatment you have suffered to know it is true. With me at your side, you have nothing to fear."

He sniffled and wiped a snot bubble away on the back of his hand. "It is true. Such mean humans! Poor me!" He paused to lick the slime off his hand, and then he chewed at the dried blood underneath his fingernails. After the disgusting ritual was complete he offered a broad smile. "Always wanted a friend. _Merci_, Stinky-Grass-Man."

I decided to let it go, at least until we were in a safer location. I gestured to the door with a sweep of my hand. "Come come, dear friend. I know this place well. Follow me to your freedom."

He climbed off the table and approached with a sort of crouch, head held low and muscles tense. When he reached me he pressed his nose against my glove, took a few deep sniffs, and then sneezed on my pants. The explosive sound startled me out of the spell of calm I had maintained thus far, and I jumped backwards through the doorway.

That turned out to be the worst knee-jerk reaction my reflexes could have dealt me. The monster shot after me like a cat pouncing on a mouse. He landed on my chest and took a swipe with his hand, clawing a line of slashes through the burlap.

I thrust my hand into one of the myriad pockets sewn into my coat and withdrew a pumpkin bomb. He swiped at my hand and it flew straight up into the air before I had time to consider my aim. Fortunately it did not come down, and instead blew a hole in the ceiling. Burning debris pelted us.

A piece grazed the monster's nose and pummeled me on the forehead. He uttered an inhuman shriek and raced back into his cell. The next seconds passed in a surreal haze, as I lay on the floor and watched him tear across the little room. He ran into walls and clawed at his flaming clothing.

Arkham, being Arkham, had malfunctioning sprinkler systems. The fire alarm did work, and it provided an ear-splitting sound track to the chaos brewing on either side of the hallway. I came to my senses with little time to spare, either from discovery by guards or being consumed by the flames spreading across my clothing. I rolled to put them out, and then searched for the quickest exit.

I discovered it right above my head. The explosion had damaged a ventilation shaft; a tight fit, but manageable for someone of my build. I removed the rope tied around my neck, hooked a piece of metal protruding from the ceiling, and climbed in.

Before I could make my getaway the sounds below arrested my attention. Guards screamed at each other to search for escaped patients. Patients screamed to be released. The monster roared as if doing battle with the flames.

The fire did not spread far from the monster's cell. A pair of the more level-headed employees were able to subdue it with fire extinguishers. That was a mistake. The monster charged out and took a swipe at them. His clothing was in tatters and he had suffered severe burns. He missed, and they fell over each other trying to retreat.

A black line snaked from the right side of my limited field of view and wrapped around the monster's legs, pulling his feet out from under him. He fell on his face with a grunt and the employees made their escape.

Had I not been so distracted, I would have taken advantage of the fact that the Batman strode into view and stopped right beneath my hiding spot. It was a long day. I was tired.

The monster slashed through the rope and pushed himself up. He froze midway through rising and regarded his new challenger with wide eyes. Even from a distance I could see that he was trembling. He opened his mouth wide and made a sound like a frightened cat.

The Batman tossed a smoke bomb at his feet. The monster shook his head and coughed, then charged. His movements were slower after his injury, and shaky. The smoky hallway swirled with brief glimpses of charred flesh, black cape, and ropes.

When the view cleared the monster lay on the floor, arms and legs bound tight. A wad of cloth tied into his mouth propped it wide open, leaving no room to bite down. He gasped like a winded horse and stared ahead with half-closed eyes.

The Batman stood beside him and waited. A few guards came into view, grateful as always to let someone else do the work for them. A shout rose from the monster's cell; someone had discovered Dr. McCann's body. The nearest guard grabbed a handful of the monster's hair, lifted him off the ground, and slammed his face into the wall. There was a crunch and a whimper, and then his body went limp.

The Batman grabbed the guard's shirt in one hand and yanked his captive away with the other. His back was to me, but I saw the look that came over the guard's face. I heard the familiar voice, low and gravely with menace. "Someone inform Dr. Arkham that this man no longer works here. Also, bring a ladder. The Scarecrow is stuck in the ventilation shaft."

With that he carried his burned, bloody cargo out of sight, presumably to the infirmary. It was one of the rudest gestures he has ever shown me. I cannot remember the last time anyone but he had the honor of capturing me. To make matters worse I discovered the shaft narrowed after scooting back a few feet, so I decided to call it a night.

There are worse things than a lumpy bed in a cold room at Arkham. One of them lives a few doors down from me. I had better enjoy the next few nights of quiet while they last.


End file.
